


fovea centralis

by fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Background Lonely Eyes, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild breeding kink, Panopticon Martin, Peter wins the bet, Trans Martin Blackwood, background jonmartin, bye-bye Elias, panmarticon if you will, psuedo-religious sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29162403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: At the heart of the Panopticon, Peter worships. Martin doesn't mind at all.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	fovea centralis

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to cuttooth for betaing this piece! You're such a treasure! 
> 
> Words used for Martin’s anatomy: chest, cunt, cock

In the end, Martin doesn’t do it to save the world, or even Jon. Martin slides the knife into Jonah Magnus’s heart because he is tired. He unravels centuries of planning in an instant, shoving Jonah’s body off the plinth without ceremony before assuming his place. In the end, Jonah got half of what he wanted: he succeeded in ruining the world, but not in surviving to rule it.

Peter finds this fact endlessly gratifying. Elias underestimated Martin one time too many, and he paid the ultimate price. And now, Peter has everything he ever wanted, the power of two gods at his disposal, and the freedom to do as he pleases. He is untouchable. 

Peter has made a shrine for Martin, surrounded him with offerings of fruit and flowers and precious stones. Martin rests in a bed of silks, as beautiful and lifeless as the jewels at his feet. 

He takes care of Martin’s body himself, washes his skin and anoints him with sweet-smelling oils, then dresses his limp body as he would a doll. These things aren’t necessary in his state, but they add a sense of ceremony Peter appreciates. 

“How are you, my sweet?” Peter asks as he descends with the day’s offerings. Predictably, Martin ignores him, fixated on the world of horrors outside. Peter smiles. He’s more than happy to carry on the conversation by himself, with limited interruption. He sets the tray by the altar, sitting beside Martin and laying a hand on his cheek. “I missed you.”

Long ago, his behavior would have made Martin blush and stammer. Now he simply lies there, eyes open and staring at everything but Peter. Martin can see the entire world, and Peter is the most insignificant part of it, a drop of water in a sea of information. 

Peter tells Martin about his day as he arranges the offerings around the altar. Candles from the Desolation—Peter won’t burn them, as he isn’t partial to the smell, but it’s the thought that counts. The Twisting Deceit has sent a clay ornament glazed in shifting oil-slick colors, the shape of which seems to change each time Peter looks at it. The Stranger has contributed a mask crafted from tanned leather he doubts came from any animal. Even ordinary humans have sent tribute, talismans hastily made from scraps and refuse. Peter doesn’t receive the offerings himself, of course. He is not the sort of king to hold court. 

“Your Archivist misses you, too,” Peter says, brushing a stray curl from Martin’s face. 

Martin’s expression flickers for a brief moment, though his eyes remain fixed and vacant.

“Why would he?” he asks distantly. “I’m right here.”

Peter leans down to kiss his forehead, pleased. “That you are.”

Once he has asked Martin the things he needs to know, reveling in the distant chill of Martin’s voice as he recites horrors and atrocities, Peter leans down to kiss his lips. As usual, Martin doesn’t respond, letting Peter explore at his leisure before he works his way down the pale column of his throat. Martin’s freckles are fading from his time underground. Peter pushes the satin robe down Martin’s shoulders so he can nip at his collar bones and suck purple bruises onto his soft chest. Peter is the only one who gets to see him like this, aside from the Archivist, who sees everything. Only the two of them get to see the subtle shiver across Martin’s skin as Peter licks his sweet pink nipples to hardness. 

“I love you, you know,” Peter murmurs against his soft belly. “More than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“You loved Jonah,” Martin says tonelessly. 

His lover’s name sends a jolt of delicious loneliness through Peter. He can’t even lie to Martin; Martin sees everything these days. 

“I suppose I did. But Jonah wasn’t mine like you are.”

Martin doesn’t react to his words at all. Peter’s cock throbs, and he lowers his face to Martin’s cunt. He keeps Martin shaved these days, enjoying the feeling of bare skin against his lips as he traces Martin’s folds with his tongue. Martin grows wet quickly; his body knows Peter’s touch, knows how to ready itself for him. He slips two fingers inside, and Martin’s body clutches him tightly, even as his mind is utterly indifferent. 

Peter decides he’s had enough of waiting. He takes himself out, lining himself up so he can slide into Martin’s slick heat. The feel of him stretching open makes Peter moan and grip Martin’s hips with both hands. 

“Tell me what you see,” he demands. 

As Peter fucks him, Martin tells him about the world. About the masked dancers on the Stranger’s carousel, who trade faces as readily as kisses. About the endless tides of Simon’s domain, the sea that stretches on and on in every direction with no sign of shore. His voice is flat and unaffected, completely void of empathy. Peter’s breath comes in short, sharp bursts as he uses Martin’s body, and Martin’s voice doesn’t so much as catch. Peter rubs ruthlessly against Martin’s cock just to see him twitch. 

“I don’t know why you do that,” Martin says absently.

Peter groans, hips stuttering against Martin as he drives into him. He grips Martin’s hips with bruising force, fucking him faster and deeper. Martin doesn’t care at all. He lets Peter use him like a toy, selfishly, brutally, and doesn’t complain at all. He’s perfect, distant yet touchable, everything Peter has ever wanted, and the tight, hot clutch of him is Peter’s undoing. He bites into Martin’s soft throat as he comes, filling Martin with his spend. 

He lets himself rest for a moment, breathing into the crease of Martin’s shoulder, before slipping a hand between them to finish Martin off. Martin shudders against him as he rubs and pinches his cock until he comes silently, clenching almost painfully around Peter. 

When he pulls out, his come drips from Martin’s well-used cunt. He pushes it back in with two fingers. Part of him wonders if it would take. What would  _ happen  _ if it took. He leans down to kiss Martin’s swollen cock, slow and lingering, amused at the little twitch he gives. 

Peter puts Martin’s clothing to rights, and he looks untouched again, resting peacefully on his bed of silk, like a gem in a jeweler’s case. The sight takes Peter’s breath away. 

“Take care, pet,” he says, rising to leave. 

Martin’s silence follows him from the room. 


End file.
